


Purely Medicinal

by Mattycakes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mattycakes/pseuds/Mattycakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock learns that daily masturbation has medicinal benefits. John is finding it very distracting.</p>
<p>UPDATE: To my immense flattery, this fic has been translated into <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5213021/chapters/12018581">Mandarin</a> by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyblossom/profile">Daisyblossom</a> thank you so much! xo</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

~*~

"Did you know that regular masturbation decreases the risk of prostate cancer?"

John had been living with Sherlock long enough for questions like this to have become the norm. As such, John only let his jaw drop for a fraction of a second before resuming his entry into the flat and proceeding to put away the groceries.

"I did, as a matter of fact." John said. "I _am_ a doctor, you know."

Sherlock looked up from John's laptop and fixed his flatmate with a look of indecent outrage. "You _knew_ about this?"

John was rather taken aback by the accusatory tone. "Well, yes. Lots of people know that. Well, a few. What difference does it make?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes with such force it was a miracle the tendons didn't snap. "Oh, none at all John. What difference could it _possibly_ make to impart vital information that has the potential to save lives. Do you not realise what this means?"

John scratched his chin absently as he made tea. "That a wank a day keeps the doctor away?" he tried jokingly.

Sherlock scowled, resenting John's humour in what he considered to be a wholly un-funny situation. "Brilliant deduction, Dr Watson. More to the point, the absence of a wank a day may result in _early and excruciating death."_

John nodded. "Yes, that would make a much catchier slogan for prostate cancer awareness."

Sherlock was now fidgeting with his forearm, a sign that he was in need of a nicotine fix. _He's worried,_ John deduced, cursing that Sherlock's observational habits were rubbing off on him. "The numbers on this are all over the place… I can't find any accurate information about how this affects _me…"_ Sherlock muttered, looking more and more agitated by the second. "John, in your medical opinion, how long do I have left?"

"Oh for…" John was trying very hard not to laugh, as his flatmate seemed to be in real distress. "Sherlock, you're not even forty. You're not going to get prostate cancer at your age. Yes, it probably would have been healthier if you'd… cleaned the pipes every now and again. But I seriously doubt you're currently in any mortal peril."

"What if I started making up for lost time?" Sherlock continued, his face deadpan. "If I calculated correctly, I could masturbate ten times a day, and by that time I should be caught up by…"

"It doesn't work that way, Sherlock." John rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. He'd been in the flat less than five minutes and was already getting a Sherlock-induced migraine. That had to be a new record. "Look, if it's bothering you that much, just make a habit of it now. I'm sure that will be enough to keep the cancer at bay."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. Then without any hesitation or embarrassment, he sprang up from the couch and made a beeline for the bathroom.

John tried very hard not to think about what he knew for certain Sherlock was doing in there.

*

In retrospect, John probably should have thought about the consequences of advising an idiosyncratic eccentric to add a daily masturbation session to his routine.

John's first insight to this came the next morning, as John was tiredly stumbling to the half-open bathroom door, only to step inside and find Sherlock Holmes stroking himself lazily over the bathroom sink.

"Morning, John." He said airily as his roommate alternated between wide-eyed staring, and screwing up his eyes in horror.

"Sh-sherlock?" John spluttered. "What are you _doing?"_

"What does it look like?" Sherlock said derisively. To John's irritation, he didn't even pause in his movements, but continued massaging his shaft with languid, unhurried strokes.

"It _looks_ like you're having a morning wank with the bloody door open!" John finally settled on glaring angrily at the patch of wall behind Sherlock, straining to focus on the peeling wallpaper and not on his flatmate's highly-inappropriate morning activities.

"Yet another brilliant deduction. You're getting better and better at this." Sherlock drawled, though his usual air of superiority was somewhat ruined by the little shudder he gave as his cock suddenly became much more sensitive and responsive. _What could that be due to?_ Sherlock made a mental note to wonder about that later.

"Yes but… stop that! You left the door open!"

"So? I always leave the bathroom door open. You've never complained when you walk in on me showering, or brushing my teeth or taking a piss…"

"That's… that's different." John argued lamely. It was true, they hadn't really squabbled over bathroom etiquette. Being men, they didn't seem to mind walking in on each other changing or showering or taking a leak. John attributed it to being in the army, where privacy was scarce. He'd attributed Sherlock to… well, being Sherlock.

"Why is this different?" John wished Sherlock hadn't nodded towards his penis as he'd said that, causing John to involuntarily look down again.

"It just _is."_ John said firmly, giving up on averting his eyes so he could glare at Sherlock. "I can't brush my teeth with your dick in the sink. Can't you do that in your bedroom?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered. "I can also technically brush my teeth, bathe, and empty my bowels in my bedroom, but these things tend to be less messy when conducted in the bathroom. Can't you wait until I'm done?" Sherlock asked, having the nerve to sound politely affronted by John's lack of manners.

"I need to brush my teeth!"

"I need to fight off cancer!" Sherlock's cheeks had a definite pink tinge now, but it was hard to tell if it was from anger or from… John bit his lip to stifle a moan. Jesus, was he dripping?

"Honestly John, you're being very selfish."

 _"I'm_ selfish?" John asked, his words catching on a laugh. "I'm not the one making my roommate late for work so I can indulge in a morning wank!"

"I'm not the one willing to let my roommate get cancer so I won't be late to work." Sherlock countered. "And I'm not _indulging_ myself. This is a matter of life and death, John."

John snapped. "Sherlock, if you don't put yourself away and let me brush my teeth _right now,_ I'm going to come over there and…"

But John didn't have time to think of what he was going to do, because as soon as he'd started shouting, Sherlock's hand had started flying madly over his prick and the next moment, Sherlock's entire body had started to twitch. Sherlock's free hand gripped the rim of the sink, and the bathroom rumbled with a low moan that somehow resonated from Sherlock's chest but never made it past his lips. John watched with fascinated horror as Sherlock's eyes closed in bliss as he ejaculated into the bathroom sink, thrusting into the tight circle of his fist and shooting nearly all of it neatly down the drain.

"That…" Sherlock said, sounding slightly out of breath. "Won't be necessary."

John watched, stunned, as Sherlock washed his hands, used a bit of liquid soap and toilet paper to wipe the basin and _finally_ tucked himself away.

"All yours, John." Sherlock smiled, clapping John cheerfully on the shoulder as he left.

Sherlock wasn't the only one to fill the basin that morning.

*

**Reviews are love!**   



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if Sherlock's new daily masturbation habit wasn't torturing John enough.

As the two ate dinner at Angelo’s later that evening, Sherlock noticed John was acting strangely. For the life of him, Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. 

“You’re not making eye-contact.” Sherlock observed, as John quickly glanced away from Sherlock’s unrelenting gaze for the twelfth time that evening. 

John obligingly looked up, and Sherlock could see that it was an effort as physically difficult as pulling up carpet. John tried to school his features into a blank mask, but he was too distracted by memories of cocks and bathroom sinks. Bathroom sinks… Sherlock’s cock…  _John’s_  cock, as he’d shamelessly rubbed out his own need not two minutes after Sherlock had attended to his own. John took a sip of cold water, as though it would drown his shame. 

“You’re embarrassed by something.” Sherlock deduced, ever the mind-reader. 

“Wonder what that could be.” John muttered, the first words he’d spoken since The Bathroom Incident.

“Walking in on me masturbating?” Sherlock asked, making the elderly couple at a nearby table look up in alarm. John’s eyes went wide and he glanced around in a panic. 

“Yes, that. And don’t say that word in public.” John hissed through gritted teeth. 

Sherlock frowned, ignoring John’s objection to his use of a perfectly functional word. “No, that’s not it. You’re… feeling guilty.” Sherlock said slowly, his eyes crinkling as he struggled to figure John out.

John thanked whatever gods were listening that his guilt was to do with the one area Sherlock seemed to know little to nothing about. “Fine, yes, I’m embarrassed. And maybe a little guilty that I walked in on you, though frankly I have nothing to feel guilty about.”  _Except that you had a wank over your flatmate,_  John’s brain added helpfully, like the bastard it was.

Sherlock’s eyebrows hitched in surprise. “You’re lying.” He said simply, before finally turning his attention to his own meal.

*

From then on, John learned to hover outside the open bathroom door if he wasn’t 100% certain of Sherlock’s whereabouts. If he was perfectly still, he could hear the gentle sounds of Sherlock’s movements, and he would then wait patiently for his flatmate to finish before trying to gain access to the bathroom. John told himself it was purely because he’d come to know Sherlock well enough that trying to talk him out of an annoying habit was a waste of everyone’s time. It had nothing to do with the butterflies John got in his stomach whenever he heard the quick, slick sounds emanating from the bathroom door.  _Because that definitely wasn’t enjoyable,_  John told himself firmly.  _Not enjoyable at all._  

Eventually, this became routine, and John learned to live with this slightly altered state of affairs. His crush – not that it  _was_  a crush or anything, but it was definitely some kind of fascination that John intended to take to the grave – on Sherlock had ebbed, or at least John had learned to hide it enough to stop Sherlock bloody  _observing_  him about it. 

Things seemed more or less back to normal.

That is until a week or so later, when John and Sherlock were sitting in Lestrade’s office, listening to him drone on about a serial murderer loose in London. John could tell Sherlock was already bored, but was simply holding out in hope of some grisly detail that might make this a case worthy of his attention. Just as it seemed Lestrade was getting to said detail, a loud beeping interrupted his stream of dialogue. 

“Ah, so sorry gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me.” Sherlock announced, and that's when John noticed that the beeping seemed to be emanating from a cheap digital watch on Sherlock's wrist. John frowned curiously, his brain already cataloging various details (despite Sherlock's teasing, he really _had_ become pretty decent at the art of deduction). It was a new watch, too cheap to be a gift, so Sherlock had bought if for himself, an odd fashion choice for Sherlock, who was rarely seen out of designer label garments.  _Besides that flimsy dressing gown,_ John’s brain cheerfully pointed out.  _Not to mention that nearly-transparent sheet he likes to prance around in, with not a stitch on underne-_

No. He wouldn’t think like that.  _Shut up, brain,_  John admonished. 

“Sherlock, where the hell are you going?” Lestrade barked as Sherlock rose from his chair and made to leave the room. Out of habit, John stood to leave with him, but Sherlock halted him with a raise of his pale hand. 

“Won’t take a minute,” he said, gesturing for John to sit. “I just need to pop to the loo for five to ten minutes.”

John’s eyes became as wide as saucers as his brain helpfully pieced together the relevance between Sherlock's new watch and his latest daily activity. _No_. Surely he wasn’t going to…  _in a police station?_

Lestrade frowned, evidently concerned, and John prayed to whoever was listening that the Inspector would let Sherlock take his leave silently. “Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Oh fine,” Sherlock said easily. “It’s been nearly twenty four hours since I last masturbated, you see. And since you seem to be taking your time with this presentation, it’s best not to delay these things.”

John groaned and put his face in his hands, peeking up between his fingers to see Lestrade gaping like a fish out of water. “Sherlock are you trying to be funny?”

Sherlock’s features darkened. “There’s nothing funny about prostate cancer.” He said simply before closing the door behind him with a curt snap.

*

“Sherlock!” John bellowed, slamming the door to the bathroom and pounding on the one occupied cubicle. “You come out of there  _right now.”_

“Just a minute, John. I can’t wrap things up that quickly.” Sherlock drawled from his cubicle. “I’m no longer a teenager, you know.”

John put his forehead in his hand and tried to calm his voice. “Sherlock, I’ve just spent the last five minutes convincing Lestrade that this is your weird way of messing with him and that you didn’t  _actually_  sneak off for a wank in a  _fucking police station.”_

“Would you please stop saying it like that?” Sherlock had the gall to sound annoyed with John. “I’m not ‘sneaking off for a wank’. I told you, this is purely medicinal.” 

“This wank is purely  _illegal_ , Sherlock. This is a police station.”

“So? I’m not the only man who’s masturbated in here today. Once I’m done here, I can point them out to you, if you’d like.”

“Once you’re… no!  _No,_  Sherlock. You get your arse out here right now!” John barked at the door. The only response he got was a low moan and a series of quick, wet sounds that went straight to John’s cock. 

_God dammit._

“Sherlock.” John said quietly against the crack between the divder and the door. If he lined up his eye properly, he could just see that Sherlock was standing with his back to John, could just see Sherlock's arm moving gently, could see that the toilet bowl was open and awaiting Sherlock's.... “Sherlock, please.”

Another moan, more a whimper really. More sounds, faster this time. If John didn't know any better, he'd say that Sherlock was actually  _responding_  to John's voice, and John batted away an urge to grope the hard lump that was forming fast in his jeans.

_Sherlock, come out of there._  That’s what John had meant to say. But he never got past the first two words, and the next second the room seemed to hum with Sherlock’s moan. 

_Christ, he’s coming._  That thought shouldn’t be making John’s cock leak a damp patch into his underwear, but it was and the next second Sherlock was opening the door to find a red-faced John Watson breathing heavily and sporting a very obvious erection. Sherlock glanced down unashamedly, cocking an eyebrow at John's crotch. John's cock twitched in response, the traitor.

“Hypocrite.” Sherlock chastised, nudging past John to wash his hands. “Try to hurry John. It would be rude to keep the Inspector waiting too long.” Sherlock left the bathroom, and John along with it. 

For a few seconds, John stood alone, breathing heavily and truly feeling the ache in his loins. Could he really…? No. John was a civilised human being who (unlike Sherlock) had a certain respect for the law and the social custom of  _not_  masturbating in a public bathroom and...

_Oh sod it,_  John thought, wrenching open the cubicle door and locking himself in as he sat on the toilet seat. God the cubicle actually  _smelled_  like Sherlock’s arousal, and John bit down his fist to stifle a moan as his other hand thrust itself down his pants. He pulled roughly at his cock, like he was punishing it for getting hard over Sherlock, but it was possibly the least effective deterrent imaginable. John's hips started jerking into his fist as John bought himself to the brink faster than he'd gotten there in years, frantically trying to bring himself off before Lestrade grew suspicious of his absence, or before John had time to really consider what he was actually doing. In a police station bathroom, no less.

John's orgasm hit him like a punch, and he barely managed to catch his load in his palm before the bathroom door banged open and the faint tinkling of someone at the urinal could be heard. John blushed, knowing he couldn't possibly step out of the cubicle with semen all over his hands. A quick glance to his left showed that the stall was annoyingly out of toilet paper.

_Nothing for it then,_  John thought as he bought his sticky fingers to his mouth and sucked away all evidence of his crime. John closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine that the salty fluid in his mouth belonged not to himself, but to a certain raven-haired detective. 

Once he’d cleaned up and splashed some cold water on his face to dull the heated blush that just  _wouldn’t_  go away, John sheepishly went to the break room to help himself to a coffee so he had some kind of excuse for his prolonged absence. Lestrade was still talking about the case when John returned, but Sherlock smirked at the cup in John’s hand, clearly seeing through the flimsy prop. 

John took a defiant sip, glaring at Sherlock, who glanced away and returned his attention to Lestrade’s presentation. 

“You’re not to do that again.” John muttered in the cab on the way home. “I mean it, Sherlock. You can’t  _do that_  in a police station.” 

Sherlock smirked, not taking his glance away from the cab window. “I won’t do it again if you don’t.”

John’s ears burned the rest of the ride home, but Sherlock remained blessedly silent.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

If John had thought wanking in a police station was the low point for Sherlock, he was soon proven very horribly mistaken indeed. This week, John was tempted to label the low point as the surreptitious wank Sherlock had indulged in the morgue at St Bart’s, or perhaps it was when Sherlock snuck off to ‘use the loo’ at the home of a rather gory crime scene (and John was seriously hoping that those two were _not_ in any way related). As time progressed, there was no denying Sherlock’s habit was getting more and more troublesome and outlandish every day.

 

Which would have been fine, in a disturbed, Sherlockian sort of way, if it weren’t for the fact that every time Sherlock caught John’s attention with his antics, it provoked a rather troublesome and outlandish response from John too. Most days, John’s civilised nature prevented him from dashing off to a public restroom and masturbating like a poorly-raised teenager. Other times, John had to contend with Sherlock’s knowing smirk as John emerged from various restrooms, no doubt showing minute signals that he’d just indulged in a pleasant, hurried session with his own hand.

 

“This has to stop.” John said one day, as they’d just returned from their latest consultation with Lestrade.

 

“Indeed.” Sherlock nodded gravely and John nearly sagged in relief.

 

“Good. I’m glad to hear…”

 

“Three murders in five days. We shan’t rest until this case has been solved.” Sherlock went on, his eyes dancing with excitement. John now knew for a fact that this expression was quite similar to how Sherlock looked when he was… _none of that,_ John chastised himself as Sherlock dashed into the living room to flop on the couch and _think_ for several hours.

 

*

 

Sherlock solved the case, of course. The man whose life had been saved as a result of Sherlock and John’s efforts was something of a wealthy well-to-do about London, and he wouldn’t settle for showing his gratitude by anything less than throwing a grand party in Sherlock’s honour. Which is how John found himself squirming in an uncomfortable tuxedo, silently panicking over which fork he was supposed to be using on his salad.

 

“Start from the outside and work your way in.” Sherlock muttered in John’s ear, sending a disturbing shock down John’s spine and into his groin. John shuddered, gripping the outmost fork with a trembling hand and trying to ignore the lingering tingling sensation of Sherlock’s lips near his ear. He could get through tonight without humiliating himself. Perhaps even without Sherlock humiliating them. Miracles were bound to happen.

 

Just as the mains were cleared and John had started to relax into his third or fourth glass of wine, the host stood, tapping his glass with a spoon. He began what was obviously the start of a long speech in Sherlock’s honour, and that’s when John realised; Sherlock was no longer sitting beside him, hadn’t been for about ten minutes, ever since he had excused himself to go to the bathroom and….

 

_Oh no. Not here. Not now._

Sweat started gathering on the nape of John’s neck. Sherlock was locked away in a ridiculously expensive bathroom somewhere in this very building, was probably touching himself right now and… had the room always been this warm?

 

“And with no further ado, here he is now, the man himself, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

 

John gripped the edge of the table, internally screaming as the polite clapping dimmed to confused murmuring when the great Sherlock Holmes failed to appear.

 

“I think he’s in the loo.” Someone shouted, and the room laughed lightly. John resisted the urge to drown himself in his wine.

 

“I’ll just go and get him.” John said with a tight smile, before practically stomping down the elegant halls, ready to pull Sherlock out of that bathroom by the scruff of his neck if he had to.

 

*

 

“Sherlock, I know it’s you in there. You stop that _right now_ and come with me.”

 

“Just a minute.” Sherlock grunted from the other side of the door. John withdrew the butter knife he had surreptitiously slipped into his pocket and used it to twist open the lock. Sure enough, Sherlock was standing over the bathroom sink, dick at attention and hand in motion. He didn’t even falter in his strokes when John entered the bathroom, and John’s eyes and groin tightened at the image.

 

“No. None of that.” John said firmly, but his eyes still dropped like lead balls to Sherlock’s waist. “Sherlock, everyone’s waiting for you to accept your thanks in there. You need to stop that and come with me _now.”_

 

“Just let me…”

 

“No!” John barked, and Sherlock’s hand _finally_ halted. “Sherlock Holmes, you will put yourself away, you will come with me to that stupid fucking party in your sodding honour, you will act like a human being for the rest of the evening and you will _not_ attend to… _that_ until we are through the door of Baker Street, _do you understand me?”_

 

Sherlock stood, silently surveying John. Though his hand had obediently stilled, his cock only strained to fuller attention, his need for orgasm suddenly much more urgent. Putting it away unfinished would be… uncomfortable.

 

“John, I…”

 

“No buts.” John’s hands curled into fists, partly so he wouldn’t strangle his friend, partly so he wouldn’t stride over there and finish the damn job himself. “Not another word. Put it away and _come with me._ ”

 

Biting his lip as he did so, Sherlock obeyed.

 

*

 

The next two hours were pure agony. For John and Sherlock both, though Sherlock was clearly much less accustomed to dealing with public arousal than John. Sherlock practically stammered his way through his own short speech that John had prepared, and John spent the whole time trying not to think about the hot, hard erection that Sherlock was shamelessly sporting in front of an entire room, albeit concealed by his long formal jacket. John knew it was there though, and he took great pleasure in watching Sherlock squirm as hordes of people turned their unassuming eyes on him, none of them suspecting for a moment that while they’d been making polite conversation over their fancy dinner, the guest of honour had been minutes away from shooting his load down their elaborate bathroom sink. John’s dick pressed sorely into his uncomfortable formal pants, and he slyly slipped a hand under the table to adjust it. Spurred on by the alcohol, John couldn’t quite resist giving himself a little squeeze as he did so, and he had to admit, there was something hot about the idea of secretly getting off in public. He wondered whether it was an element Sherlock had deliberately involved in his recent activities, or whether his friend was simply too idiosyncratic to care. As John replaced his hand on the table, he glanced back up to Sherlock who was fumbling over his words and doing a horrible job of trying to look anywhere but at John.

 

When Sherlock retook his seat beside John, his cheeks were still tinged and his upper lip was sweating. “You were watching me that whole time.” He hissed at John.

 

“You were making a speech.” John retorted. “It would have been rude _not_ to watch you.”

 

“You were watching my… and then _you…”_ Sherlock glanced at the portion of table over John’s lap accusingly and John blushed a little, but denied nothing. He could practically feel the heat coming off Sherlock as he played with his dessert, and John had to admit to feeling rather warm under the collar himself. It was partly the wine that John was guzzling like mothers milk, but he had a good idea that the bulk of his arousal was due to the incredibly fucked-up and arousing notion of Sherlock Holmes sitting next to him, squirming in discomfort as he struggled to ignore his most base need.

 

John’s cock gave a strong twitch under the table.

 

*

 

When the plates were cleared away after what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock practically jumped from his seat to leave the hall and hail a taxi. John smirked at Sherlock’s awkward gait as he limped to the taxi bay as quickly as his persistent erection would permit.

 

“This is… difficult.” Sherlock murmured, adjusting himself discretely as he and John waited outside for a cab to pull up. “How do normal people handle this?”

 

“By waiting until we’re in our apartment, and not by working ourselves up in a strange house.” John glanced back at the mansion from which they had just emerged. “It is a house, right? Not a museum or something?”

 

“John, this is starting to hurt.” Sherlock muttered in John’s ear, his fingers straying to fiddle with the nicotine patch on his arm.

 

“You’ll be fine. It’s normal to ache a bit if you don’t take care of it.” John soothed, patting Sherlock’s arm on reflex and nearly losing his balance when Sherlock visibly grit his teeth and swallowed hard.

 

“I don’t think I can make it that long.” Sherlock’s voice lowered to a dangerous rumble and for one wild moment John thought his own chances of making it home without an extremely public and illegal wank were looking pretty slim too.

 

“Just wait til we’re home.” John muttered again, pulling at his neck collar and shifting from foot to foot to alleviate the tension in his own groin. Sherlock pinched his lips together, trying not to moan. The sight of John in an equally aroused state nearly drove him to madness. 

“John, you’re…” Sherlock glanced at John’s groin, making the shorter man blush.

 

“Not here.” John hissed as the cab pulled up and they practically threw themselves in the back seat.

 

John could swear he could smell the sexual tension in the air the whole cab ride home. Sherlock was squirming next to him, and dammit if it wasn’t making John’s own hips want to grind in sympathy.

 

“John, I really don’t think I can make it.” Sherlock whispered, and John felt an alarming dampness as he realised that that once sentence coming out of Sherlock’s mouth was actually making him _leak_ into his pants.

 

“Nearly home, Sherlock.” John said tightly, already thinking about throwing himself onto his bed and wanking himself raw, while Sherlock did the exact same thing a room or two away. Christ, couldn’t this taxi go any faster?

When the taxi pulled up, Sherlock threw a handful of notes into the front and practically sprinted to their front door, John hot on his heels. They entered the flat and John was about to scurry to his room, when he noticed that rather than disappearing into the bathroom or bedroom, Sherlock immediately headed into the living room and flopped onto the couch.

 

“Sherlock, what…” John’s voice got lost in his throat when Sherlock zipped open his trousers and moaned with relief as his aching erection was finally freed.

 

“Oh yes…” Sherlock sighed as his fingers closed around the shaft and he started stroking lazily. John didn’t think he’d ever live to see anything as beautiful as Sherlock Holmes, sprawled on the couch with his hand in his lap and his face a mask of bliss and relief.

 

“Sherlock…” John had meant it as a protest, but it came out as a gravelly whisper. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to find John standing across the room, his eyes blown wide and focused on Sherlock’s cock.

 

“It excites you.” Sherlock whispered. It wasn’t a question. Sherlock watched John’s chest expand with laboured breaths as Sherlock dragged his fingers torturously over his foreskin, revealing the shining head. John’s expression tightened in arousal and discomfort and _fuck_ why was Sherlock doing this to him? To them, to everything they had built together? Oh, but none of that seemed to matter right now, because Sherlock was hard and wanton and staring at John heatedly, and fuck it, it was pointless to try and pretend anything was normal at this point.

 

“Stop that.” John forced out, and Sherlock’s hand slowed once more, disappointment creeping into his features. Slowly, John slipped out of his formal jacket, loosened his tie and popped the top button of his collar.

 

“Let me.” John whispered, kneeling by the couch and moving one hand to meet Sherlock’s, where it rested in a loose fist around Sherlock’s erection.

 

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock quickly drew his hand away, groaning with satisfaction when John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock and gave it a few experimental strokes.

 

John’s cock felt like an iron weight in his pants as Sherlock melted under John’s fingers. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about?” he asked, making Sherlock turn red and hide his face in the crook of his arm. “All those times you’ve been sneaking off like a randy teenager, you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” He leaned in to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. “Fuck, Sherlock, do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me?”

 

“Show me.” Sherlock begged, turning fevered eyes to the tented fabric of John’s pants.

 

John swallowed and withdrew his hand, ignoring Sherlock’s whine of protest. Slowly, he unzipped his own pants, letting his erection spring free.

 

“Oh my God,” Sherlock moaned reverently, kicking his pants down pale, slim legs, a silent demand for John to do the same. Naked from the waist-down, John joined Sherlock on the sofa, letting their erections come neatly into alignment. A fat bead of precome dripped from John’s cock to smear messily over Sherlock’s and they both gasped at the incredibly fucking arousing image it made.

 

“So, Sherlock.” John said in a shaking voice as he took both of them in hand. “Care to join me in the brave fight against prostate cancer?”

 

Sherlock’s laugh quickly morphed into a keening sound of pleasure as John started stroking them both in tandem. His hand wasn’t large enough to properly encase them both, so Sherlock joined his hand with John’s, fashioning a tunnel for both of them to slide through. It was awkward at first, with John braced on his elbow, barely touching Sherlock but for their groins sliding lazily against each other. Slowly, John lowered his body until he was almost flush with Sherlock, a silent test to see how close the detective would let him. Sherlock sensed John’s hesitation and immediately leaned up to kiss him, inviting more intimacy. John moaned in relief, allowing himself to press up against Sherlock as they moved together. He lost himself in Sherlock’s scent, in the clean, sweet taste of his neck, and in the breathy little noises he made with each downward slide of their intertwined hands.

 

“Hold on,” Sherlock muttered, bringing a hand to his mouth and licking his palm messily. John caught on and quickly did the same, moaning with pleasure as they bought their slick hands back to their cocks, the sensation so much better now with their palms wet. Fuck, John wasn’t even prepared for how incredibly hot he found it that Sherlock even knew to _do_ that.

 

“Picked up a few tricks I see.” John smirked, delighting in the way Sherlock was writhing impatiently and trying to get John to move their hands faster. “Uh-uh, not yet Sherlock. We’re going to take our time, I want this to last.”

 

“Fuck John, come on, please…” Sherlock tried to thrust his hips into John’s hand, and suddenly the build up of the evening felt too much to bear, and despite himself John obediently gripped their shafts tighter in warning and leaned down for a bruising kiss. He started stroking hard and fast, swallowing Sherlock’s startled moan greedily. Sherlock keened and spread his legs to allow John to move between them, letting his arm go limp so that John could control the pace of their wanking, letting John move his hand for him and just use it as something to rut into.

 

“Oh yeah, that’s it, I’m close Sherlock…” John kept muttering a litany of filth into Sherlock’s ear in a low voice and Sherlock for his part only moaned in response. _This_ was the feeling he’d become addicted to lately. The sensation of his mind going blissfully blank, all his focus pinpointed to the one factor of the growing pleasure between his legs. This was better than cocaine, better than anything. This was the best kind of high, and Sherlock couldn’t believe he had taken it for granted in his teens, but then again, he hadn’t been living with John at the time.

 

“Oh-h… oh God…” John’s voice had risen in pitch and Sherlock’s groin tightened with excitement as he realised John was about to come. “Oh Christ, _Sherlock!”_ John grunted, tugging roughly on his cock to milk the first bursts of his orgasm.

 

“John, John, I’m _coming.”_ Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back as the rush hit him and his world turned into a black hole of never ending pleasure. John kept moving his hand even as Sherlock fell back and went completely still during his orgasm, eyes closed in a way eerily similar to how he looked when he lay right in this very spot, thinking really hard about his bloody cases. John wondered if Sherlock would ever be able to lie here again without thinking of this moment. The notion was a heady one, and caused John to give one last pleasant shudder before he collapsed, breathing heavily into the suddenly humid room.

 

“So.” John said after a few minutes, smirking at a sweaty, sated Sherlock. “Has this at the very least convinced you that orgasms don’t have to be purely medicinal?”

 

Sherlock gave John a look. “No, of course not. However, given the clinical nature of the whole thing, I believe I’ve decided to leave this matter in the hands of a certified healthcare professional.”

 

John smiled, relieved that his days of hunting down an inappropriately randy Sherlock in public were (possibly) at an end. “That’s probably for the best. After all,” John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, “prostate cancer is no laughing matter.”


End file.
